Second Guess
by 1dStraightCurve
Summary: Emily deals with the events of Minimal Loss.


Emily stared at her reflection, reaching to probe her face gingerly

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Prentiss, nor do I own Reid (no matter how much I'd love to), I do not own Hotch or Morgan. I do not own Garcia and I do not own JJ. I most definitely do not own Rossi, or any of the unsubs. I do not own the BAU or the FBI or anything else related to Criminal Minds, which I do not own either. Just in case you were wondering.

**AN: **I've been wanting to write an Emily-centred fic for ages because I love her as a character, but I find her quite hard to write. After watching Minimal Loss for the second time, I just couldn't resist. This is a small piece dealing with her reaction to the events on that episode. For that reason, it is highly spoilery, so don't read it if you haven't watched that episode.

But, I digress. Here it is. Do enjoy it; hopefully it won't be terribly OOC.

* * *

Emily stared at her reflection, reaching to probe her face gingerly. It was still sore. It would probably be sore for days. It was funny how the consequences of a split-second decision would linger for such a long time. Funny how it always seemed to happen that way. Funny how it all had happened so many hours ago and yet it was all she could think of.

Ever since the events of the previous day, she found herself constantly dwelling on them. Wondering if it could've gone some other way, or if she'd done all she possibly could. She'd gone over every single step she'd taken that night, asking herself if there had been a better way. She didn't think so and, yet, she felt there must have. She could've died. Reid could've died. Even Morgan could've died.

Jessica had.

Try as she might – and she had tried many times – she could not imagine the grief caused by losing one's child. Losing your daughter because she had chosen to follow a madman to her own death…. Well, it was beyond her and, as she'd faced Jessica's mother in the aftermath of the blast, she'd wished she could understand. That way she might've found the words to comfort her, soothe her pain somehow. Instead, their eyes had just met and she'd walked away, afraid to make it worse. Life just wasn't fair. That woman had sacrificed everything to save her daughter and her daughter was the only one she could not save. Somehow, Emily felt responsible. Guilty.

She sighed, weary, and made her way back to her kitchen, where she poured herself a cup of coffee. She eyed it critically. It wasn't the best of ideas, to drink coffee. What she really needed was some sleep. It didn't matter that she had already tried quite a few times to no avail. It didn't matter that every time she closed her eyes she could see the explosion again, hear Jessica's mother crying, yelling at her, blaming her. She could see Reid being beaten instead of her, hear him scream, his cries. Reid being shot, while she kept silent. She could imagine what his face would've looked like. Blank. Dead. Images popped up of Reid and Morgan's corpses, charred beyond all recognition, features contorted, forever frozen in agony. She could imagine Hotch's face, staring at her disapprovingly. It was your fault, he would say, and he'd be right.

She downed her coffee.

Setting her mug on the counter, she leaned against it, staring at the blank wall in front of her. She had the rest of the day ahead of her, and nothing to do. She needed to do something; she needed to stop thinking, needed to work. It was the only thing that'd distract her. But Hotch had been clear, take a few days off. Take some time to recover. Get some sleep.

She sighed. She didn't want to get some sleep. She was afraid to sleep. She could do without sleep.

She stared through the doorway into her living room. Her place was too empty. Daunting. The TV sat innocently in front of her couch. The last time she'd tried that, she'd come face to face with a news report on what had gone down with Cyrus. She shuddered. She didn't want to chance that again. A pile of books was strewn on her coffee table. Books she'd set aside to read when she got the time. The ones she'd take on each case, to read during idle moments. Only getting through small bits each time.

Well, she had time now.

But she didn't feel like reading. None of them seemed appealing to her. She forced herself to pick one up, though, a Margaret Atwood novel. She plopped herself on the couch and opened it. Forcing herself to focus, she managed to get through the first few sentences before her thoughts began to drift. Benjamin Cyrus' face seemed to float in front of the page, mocking, whispering scripture and lecturing her on the evils of pride.

She blinked. Stared at the page.

Where was she?

It took her longer to find her place again than she managed to keep her attention on the words. Before she knew it, she'd lost it once more. Eventually, a few tries later, she gave up, throwing the book back onto the coffee table. Leaning back on the couch, she shut her eyes in frustration.

Screw Hotch, she sighed, she was going to work.


End file.
